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Thomas finally had him stop on a rise, where a sloped expanse of field provided a rolling panoramic glimpse of the forest backdrop, followed by a layering of blue-green hills. Marcus followed him over a fence with the basket, blanket and book. In short order he had the blanket spread out, the basket serving as a side table for his glass of wine. Putting a book in his lap and tree at his back, Marcus set his music player at his side to softly play the programmed selections he'd downloaded for this trip.
While Thomas had packed all those things for his comfort, he paid little attention to Marcus' use of them now, moving about fifty feet away into the field, dropping several sketch pads around him. There he stood now. Staring into space. Shifting.
It was like watching a bloodhound, Marcus reflected. Thomas turning, making slight, erratic shifts that couldn't necessarily be predicted, seeking something no one else could detect. Abruptly he settled, dropping to a cross-legged position in the long grass, opening the sketch pad and letting his pencil take him to whatever place he tangled with his muse.
Marcus had heard of family members of artists who felt excluded, isolated during these times. Maybe he felt differently because of his reverence for what happened in these moments. When the end result captivated someone on a gallery wall, he knew he'd been present for creation, a fly on the wall.
That applied to Josh and some of his other artists. But with Thomas, it was as if his lover's creative awareness expanded and cloaked Marcus the same way the greenness of the trees did. The cool comfort of it was a buffer against the world, as if it guarded something sacred, untouchable in this field. He was a part of this, not just an observer.
Pushing away that thought and the other unsettling thoughts it raised, Marcus focused on his book and wine, letting the breeze and the quiet of the place close in on his mind, fill the troubled spots for awhile. That quietness had substance, for while it was present it seemed to have no room for uneasy ruminations.
Three glasses of wine later, he stretched out on his back, ankles crossed, one arm behind his head as a pillow, holding the paperback up to read. Until it slowly descended and he dozed.
Wheat-colored grass, flowing, rippling like a lover's muscles. Green flowing into the gold like interlocking fingers. Every part different, but all part of the whole. Birds spiraling and speaking in musical tongues, warbling, chirping, trebling, the piercing shriek of a hawk. The occasional rasping calls of the crows, or the surprise of an owl's hoot as the sun rose, giving warmth, a dying god's gift, the promise of renewal as it moved inexorably toward the autumn cycle.
Marcus opened sle
epy eyes to find his lover's face very, very close. Thomas was leaning over him, one hand braced on the other side of Marcus' hip, his dark chocolate brown eyes studying Marcus' face intently. Leaning in further, he kissed him.
Marcus raised his hand, intending to cup his head, feel the short hair layered over his knuckles, but Thomas' hand closed over his wrist, held it in the air, his fingers straightening to meet him palm to palm. Then, slowly, Thomas eased both their hands back to the blanket as he shifted and laid his body fully on Marcus'.
Marcus felt a stirring in his lower belly, a need to change their positions, but he was too drugged by sun and the tranquility of their surroundings. He could lie here, for just another moment. One more. And one more.
"Christ, you're going to kill me," he muttered.
As Thomas' lips coaxed his open, his tongue was seduced into erotic play that had his vitals coiling. When Thomas increased the pressure behind the kisses, the passion behind them, his hand dropped to Marcus' throat, squeezing. Marcus responded somewhere between a groan and a feral growl of warning. Even as he did his body was lifting up, back arching to bump Thomas' chest. When he would have freed his hand, Thomas' grip slid to his other wrist, just caressing the pulse.
"Let me," Thomas murmured. "Just let me. "
Marcus wondered if it was only incidental that John Mayer's languorous Gravity was playing, the words and tone so appropriate.
Thomas' hand cupped the side of Marcus' head, fingers sliding into his thick hair, caressing his scalp, capturing strands and stroking, his body rubbing Marcus' in the slow blues rhythm of the song, chest to chest. Groin to groin, hard, urgent need grinding against the same.
"Wait. . . " Thomas' whisper held Marcus where he was. When Thomas moved his hand, thumb tracing his ribs, then shifting between them to open Marcus' shirt, Marcus left his hand lying on the grass. Fingers half curled, but palm up, suggesting surrender.
He'd never let a lover make love to him like this, but this was Thomas, his pet. His slave. Thomas could do anything he wanted to him, because Thomas was his. And yet, Thomas had never been as bold, as confident as he was at this moment, taking the lead.
Thomas moved his mouth to go for the throat, the sweet pocket of Marcus' collarbone, loosening his hold on Marcus' other hand as he cupped his jaw to trace vulnerable arteries with his tongue. He caressed the smooth muscle of Marcus' chest.
The flat hard nipples, the silken hair that formed a thin line down the distinct aisle between the washboard abs.
He kissed, not down, but along Marcus' shoulder, teasing the line of bone and muscle there, rubbed his cheek along it. Raised his head enough to study it, trace it before he turned to stare into Marcus' eyes, peer there intently as he caressed that part of his anatomy. He moved his hips, a slow, dragging stroke, rubbing his turgid cock against Marcus'.
That was all Marcus could handle. His control broke. Seizing the back of Thomas' head, he rolled them, crushing his mouth to Thomas' as he reversed their positions.
Thomas' hands clamped down on his ass and squeezed with bruising force, fingers teasing the crease. Marcus pulled at Thomas' waistband, wanting to tear his clothes from him, right now, now, now. Goading him to a sexual frenzy with those sexy touches and slumberous eyes, touching him as if he owned him, as if. . .
When Marcus rose to his knees, Thomas reached for his pants, opening them and reaching in, his eyes now dark and dangerous. It was the unexpected version of Thomas, the one who knew what he wanted and could have it, who closed his hand on the heated steel of Marcus' cock. Marcus let his head fall back on his shoulders at that touch and then he caught the hand that was threatening to make him spew at any moment.
"Take off your jeans, pet," he managed hoarsely. "Down on your side on the blankets. " He caressed Thomas' throat, squeezing it deliberately, making it clear who belonged to whom. "I want to see the marks I left on you. "
"You could see them long before last night," Thomas responded.
"Off," Marcus growled. "Now. "
Thomas stood up on his knees, unbuckled his belt, slid it free and opened the jeans, shoving them down his thighs. Keeping his gaze on Marcus' face, he went down on his side. Marcus wondered if the extent of his own need, the dangerous power of it, was in his expression.
"The shirt. "
